


You Don't Get to Touch Him

by atthebarricade



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: A Whole Lot of F-Bombs, Homophobic Slurs, M/M, Svetlana is a bad bitch, depictions of violence, everyone hates terry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-22
Updated: 2015-01-22
Packaged: 2018-03-08 15:50:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3214811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atthebarricade/pseuds/atthebarricade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Terry gets out of jail.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Don't Get to Touch Him

**Author's Note:**

> Because I haven't seen a lot of fic dealing with what might happen if Terry comes back, and we all know that shit would go down if he ever did. Please make sure to check the tags! We all know Terry's a piece of trash and any fic that has him in it is going to have some triggers.  
> Unbeta'd- sorry. Enjoy! (if you can)

Two years and five months after getting arrested at Yevgeny's christening, Terry comes back.

It's just Ian there when he comes in—Svetlana's at work (a new job; she stopped working as a prostitute a week after Yev's first birthday) and so is Mickey. The boys are God knows where, and Yev's at the Gallagher's being watched by Debbie.

Ian had just taken his medication and was preparing to get into the shower when he heard the door slam. No one was supposed to be home yet, and while it could be Mickey's brothers it was more likely some kind of trouble that Ian had to deal with.

It is.

Luckily he's almost fully clothed, just missing his shirt. He froze when he saw Terry surveying the living room with a look of disgust even though it was the cleanest the place had ever been. He tried to shuffle back to the bathroom, praying that by some miracle Terry wouldn't see him and he'd get some backup.

But Ian wasn’t very lucky and God hadn’t answered any of his prayers in a while, and Terry locked eyes with him. Ian froze, wishing that Svet had forgotten her phone and would come walking through that door any second and call the police. Or even Iggy, Tony, _anyone_. If Ian had to go face-to-face with Terry and his hatred-fueled beatdown alone, he'd never make it out of this house alive.

They both stood stock still for a moment, sizing each other up. Ian was grimly reminded of how it had taken Terry a few seconds to react to Mickey coming out a few years ago, and he waited for the other foot to drop, desperately looking around for something to defend himself with. Terry's eyes drifted down to his naked torso and Ian remembered that he was absolutely covered in hickeys from last night, and it didn't get past Terry that the little bruises were courtesy of his son.

He let out a cry and charged toward Ian, hands opened like he was preparing to strangle him. Ian yelped and leapt behind the kitchen counter, preparing to use his speed to evade Terry rather than fight him.

“You fucking faggot!” Terry roared. “What the fuck are you doing in my house? Don't have the decency to let my son suck your cock in your own fucking house?”

“Fuck you, Terry!” Ian yelled back. “You're a monster! No one gives a fuck what you think anymore! You don't have any power here. Not over me, or Mickey, or your other sons and not Mandy either. You don't have anyone, Terry. Give it the fuck up!”

Terry lunged but Ian darted around him to the living room.

“What about you, you fucking cocksucker?” Terry returned. “There's no one around to stop the fucking bullet I'm going to put in your head!”

Didn't he know it.

But all Ian needed was the opportunity to escape, and Terry couldn't possibly have a gun.

“Oh, yeah?” Ian sneered, sounding more confident than he felt. What he was really thinking about was how he'd never get to see his family again, or kiss Yev's chubby little face, or hold Mickey in his arms. All because someone decided to let this fucking psychopath out of jail. "With a bullet from where?"

“From _here_ ,” Terry replied with a snarl, pulling a gun from his waistband. Jesus Christ, how had he gotten a gun so fast?

Ian froze from where he was preparing to make a break for the door.

“As much as I'd like to shoot you right fucking now, I don't think you deserve such a quick end. Not after fucking my son under my own goddamn roof and then sending me to fucking jail. This is gonna _hurt_ , faggot. Have a fucking seat.”

Panic clouded Ian's mind and he tried to think of a way out of this. He'd stood a chance of getting away before Terry had revealed the gun, but now his only hope would be to get the gun away from him.

Ian made his way to the couch, and Terry approached him with the gun pointed firmly at his head.

“I'm gonna teach you a lesson about what happens when you fuck with Terry Milkovich,” he said, voice low and dangerous.

Ian shook his head. “It wasn't you that I fucked.”

The gun came down, and Ian's head snapped to the side. His jaw was screaming in pain but he just spat out the blood and grinned up at him. “Gonna kill me, Terry? What're you gonna do when Mickey finds out? When any of your kids find out? Or my family? You'll be sent to jail for life. They'll make sure of it. If they can stop Mickey from killing you, that is.”

Terry kicked Ian his ribs with his boots and Ian let out a little wheeze.

“I'll deal with that later,” he snarled, seizing Ian's wrists and pinning him down. His fist connected again and again with Ian's face, his chest, his ribs. Ian fought to keep talking, to keep goading Terry.

“Your son's in love with me,” he reminded him, “and your grandson adores me. Sometimes he calls me Daddy instead of Ian. Your daughter-in-law—ex-daughter-in-law, actually—is fucking a woman in your old bedroom, Terry. You have no power here. No control. No _place_.”

Terry was practically foaming at the mouth with anger, and Ian took each blow with a grin on his face. He almost felt manic again. Terry pulled him off the couch and pinned him to the ground, his knees on either side of him, trapping Ian.

“You can't beat the fag out of us, Terry,” Ian groaned. “You can't scare us into being apart. You did that for almost three years. You made your son try to be something he isn't and you _failed_ , Terry. You can't scare us apart,” he repeated. “Never again.”

The fists came twice as fast and Ian felt his nose break. Terry slammed in head into the coffee table and Ian could feel his consciousness slipping away.

“Fuck you, Terry,” Ian forced out. “You think there's something wrong with me and Mickey, that we're perverts and abominations. We're not, Terry. You are. Mickey and I know love better than you could possibly hope to understand. Go to hell.”

He resigned himself to death just as the front door slammed open.

“Fuck!” a voice shouted, and Ian felt relief trickle through him when he realized it was Mickey.

“Mick,” he wheezed, and turned to look at him. As soon as Mickey saw the shape Ian was in all the color drained from his face. Terry didn’t even ease up at bit— Ian wasn’t sure he noticed the front door had opened at all. Mickey launched himself at Terry and pried him off of Ian, who promptly used the last of his energy to seize the gun off of the table and cradle it to his chest. Like hell he was going to let Terry shoot Mickey.

“Fuck you, Terry! Get the fuck off him! Stay the fuck off him!” Mickey roared.

Terry whirled at Mickey, fists flying, but Mickey managed to dodge them all and land a solid blow to Terry’s head.

When his father dropped like a stone, Mickey gestured for the gun and Ian hesitated.

“I’m not gonna kill him,” Mickey said harshly, and Ian decided to believe him and hand it over.

Mickey straddled Terry the way that he had done to Ian just moments before and placed the gun to his father’s forehead. Terry hadn’t seen Mickey switch the safety on.

“Listen to me, Terry,” Mickey snarled. “You’ve been in the slammer too fucking long. We cut off all your buyers, fucked up your business, sullied your name and told everyone you were done dealing. They’re all gone now, Terry. You’re fucked out here. We made sure of that.” Terry was breathing heavily, and the level of hatred in his eyes was just as ferocious as Mickey’s, but Ian thought that they were different somehow. Maybe because Mickey also looked fucking terrified. “When you got out of jail we were just gonna tell you to get the fuck out and never come back. But when you laid a hand on him, you fucked yourself everywhere for life. You don’t get to touch him. You don’t get to touch him or see him or do anything, don’t even think about him unless you’re having nightmares about him ramming his dick in my ass in which case I hope you wake up screaming. You don’t understand what I would do for him, Terry. You have no fucking clue, and if you got half a fucking brain you won’t try and find out. The police are gonna come and haul you off and you’re gonna stay there for the rest of your fucking life, and Ian and I are going to continue to be together and live out the rest of our gay, happy little lives together while you rot in jail and I’m gonna be ten times the person you were, Dad.” Mickey’s breath became ragged, and Ian couldn’t take his eyes off him. He fought the blackness clouding his vision, and Mickey spoke again. “Ten times the person and the father and the husband that you ever were, and you’re gonna go to hell and no one will ever, ever miss you. Fuck you for what you did to us. Fuck you. You’re gonna pay.”

Terry struggled underneath him and Mickey didn’t let him move an inch, still panting heavily and keeping the gun trained on him.

“Ian,” Mickey said, panic replacing the anger, “Ian, Svetlana’s on her way, she’s gonna call the cops, and we’re gonna get you to a fucking hospital. Please, Ian…”

He fought it, he really did. When the front door slammed open and closed again it startled him into staying awake, and he saw Iggy looking at the scene in front of him with horror.

“Time’s up, Iggy,” Mickey said. “You don’t get to wonder who you’re gonna be loyal to. Dad’s home. Pick a fucking side.”

Iggy looked at Mickey, then Terry, and finally Ian. Upon seeing the bloody mess Ian knew he was, Iggy flinched.

“I’ll keep ’im down. You call the police.” Iggy approached Terry and replaced Mickey’s grip on the gun with his own, and Mickey clambered off him and rushed over to Ian.

“ _Ian_ ,” he whispered fervently, touching his hair gently. “Ian, baby, hold on. I’m gonna call the police and you’re gonna be okay, alright? You and me are gonna be just fine. I love you, Ian—” Terry snarled and Mickey ignored him entirely, choosing instead to run his fingers through Ian’s hair, “and we’re gonna be fine.”

He continued murmuring to Ian while he dialed 911 and only stopped when they picked up.

Ian only heard, “Please, it’s my boyfriend—” before the blackness closed in and he passed out.

When he woke up, it was to the sound of sirens and a lot of screaming.

“You think I’m not gonna get out again?” That was Terry. “Cause I will, and when I do—”

“You take one foot into this house and I will kill you with my heel before you can even look at Orange Boy,” Svetlana growled. “Touch him or Mickey or Yevgeny and I will chop your little, sad dick off and stuff it down your throat. “Do we understand?”

“Jesus,” one of the police officers next to him muttered.

Ian huffed a little painful laugh and Mickey quickly turned around.

“Fuck, Ian, thank God,” he said, reaching forward to very gingerly touch his cheek. “Holy shit. Oh, thank God. You’re alright,” he said, and Ian wasn’t sure if that was directed to him or Mickey himself. “I love you,” he said fiercely.

Ian managed to croak back an “I love you too” before paramedics burst through the door and the noise of Terry and Svetlana screaming, the sirens, and the sharp barking of the officers overwhelmed Ian and he lost consciousness for the second time.

When he woke up again, he was in a hospital room surrounded by worried faces. The Gallaghers were huddled on one side of the room and the Milkoviches were on the other. Fiona looked ashen, and Debbie’s eyes were red and swollen from crying. Lip and Carl were pale and Liam mostly looked confused and worried. Svetlana was cradling a sleeping Yevgeny, more angry than anything else. Iggy was sitting on the windowsill, starting out the open door into the hallway.

Mickey was in the chair next to his bed, white as a ghost and a little teary-eyed himself.

Ian groaned, still incredibly sore even though he was sure the pain meds were helping with the worst of it.

“Hey, Ian,” Mickey said softly, squeezing his hand. Ian hadn’t even noticed he was holding it. “Welcome back.” They shared a private look, trying to communicate what they couldn’t say out loud. Mickey looked relieved and even slightly apologetic, but Ian didn’t blame him a bit and wanted Mickey to relax.

“I’m here,” he whispered, and Mickey nodded fervently.

“I know. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

The Gallaghers swooped in to fuss over him, but they didn’t even try to make Mickey move an inch. They just positioned themselves around him, and Ian saw Lip put a comforting hand on Mickey’s shoulder. Svetlana nudged Debbie aside to kiss Ian’s forehead and announce that she had to take Yevgeny home, and Iggy took that as his cue and left with her. A half an hour of nothing but fretting passed and a nurse came in to check Ian for any signs of a concussion again and had new packs of ice for him. When she was finished, she shooed everyone out of the room, claiming Ian needed some peace. She took one look at Mickey, at the way his hand with “FUCK” tattooed on it was cradling Ian’s in his own, and let him be. He nodded gratefully at her and scooted his chair closer to Ian’s bed.

As soon as she closed the door behind her, Mickey’s eyes started welling up again.

“Fuck,” he said, and Ian squeezed his hand. “Ian, he— he was going to kill you. He wanted to shoot and kill you and if one of the guys at the Alibi hadn’t seen him and mentioned him being back to me, Fiona would be making funeral plans right now. Fuck.”

“I like to think they’d take a little time to grieve first,” Ian said, taking a shot at making a joke, and Mickey glared at him.

“Fuck you, Ian,” he said. “When I walked in, I thought you were dead. I literally thought my own father had beaten you to death on our couch. I thought I was gonna die on the spot. I just—” He sighed, swiping at his eyes. “I’m just glad that you’re gonna be okay,” he whispered finally. “You don’t get to die on me, you hear that, Gallagher? I love you too damn much for you to do that. “Too damn much.”

“I won’t,” Ian said quietly. “I won’t, Mickey. I promise.”

Mickey nodded and took in a deep, shuddering breath before smiling gently at him. “Get some fucking sleep, Ian. You look like shit.” Ian grinned at him, not daring to laugh, and even that made his face hurt like a son of a bitch.

“Love you too, Mick,” he mumbled.

“Alright, Fight Club, shut up and sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up,” he promised, rubbing Ian’s hand with his thumb.

“Clearly you’ve never seen _Fight Club_ ,” Ian said sleepily. “When I’m outta here, we’ll watch it.”

Mickey nodded, leaning forward to kiss Ian ever so gently on the lips. “It’s a date.”

 


End file.
